half-built sun went up
and a ruined one came down
over the wrack of London town,
the long grey reaches of the river
where slumbering commerce stirred
between dead jetties and weed-grown wharves.
the wind from door to door
the workforce walked in hordes,
silent, with eyes full of words,
putting their coats on hangers
and warming up their machines,
with a spoonful of coffee for their dreams.
morning had half worn off,
the styrofoam would bloom in parks
and pigeons strut and flirt enlarged
and sparrows stuff themselves with crumbs
and the overcoats tied up with string
go up to the oxter from bin to bin.
DJs would warble
and the clocks play all the old tricks
till starlings flew off in slicks
to fill the evening air
where still a cyclone broods
on the subtext of office moods.
the weatherman drawn in dots
consolingly points to the chart
but therell be no change in the heart
that jumps in the dreams of the night
like failing vertical hold
on the last television in the world.
the black lanes of their flight paths
clumps of lights winked slowly past
and the show went on with a smaller cast
of stumblers and bouncers, of cleaners and girls on the game
whod known this morning when it came
over the roofs in a ball of flame.